Page 40 of Racing Hearts

Adrian’s ball sinks in the ten cup and he winces. “That would be nice, but no. I’m happy with the job I have.”

“Then why did you apply?”

“My dad.” He sends another ball rumbling up the alley. For the second time tonight, it misses widely. Adrian lets out an impatient sigh and pushes back his hair, like he’s chastising himself. Then he spins toward me without picking up another. “He always wanted me to try my hand at higher level coaching. After he died, I applied. My mom thought it would be a good way to honor his memory.”

“Oh,” I say eloquently. I wish I had my own mom’s ability to say the right thing—something deep and impactful and loving, but still specific and totally not generic. Or Sofi’s ability to tell a joke that somehow dissipates tension while making me feel supported. “I’m sure she appreciates it.”

He smooths the front of his shirt, expression blank. “She’s happy when he’s happy, even now that it’s hypothetical.”

I watch him, unsure of how to respond to that. “She must be proud, though. It’s a big deal you’ve gotten this far in the process.”

Adrian turns to his final ball of the set. “It’s not that serious, only been a couple of interviews. I won’t get it.”

I squint at the side of his face. “USRowing flew you out to Italy. They’re asking me to evaluate you over the next two months. Carla wouldn’t make you jump through all those hoops if the board wasn’t serious about you.”

Mechanically, Adrian lets his ball roll. Sometime in the last couple of minutes, his shoulders have gone stiff and his arm has lost its smooth, fluid swing. The ball plinks against the thirty cup, flies wide, and buries into the lowest-scoring section.

He frowns after it before blowing out a long breath and turning back to me. “You’re saying I should take this more seriously.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Not at all. It’s your application. Take that as seriously as you want. I’m saying, regardless of how you feel, Carla and USRowing are clearly taking you seriously.”

Adrian’s eyebrow rises as he stares at me.

“What?” I ask, and wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand, wondering if I have food on my face.

“Nothing. I just thought…I don’t know. I assumed you’d be exacting in your standards. Expect other people to meet the same high bars you do.”

“Why, because I push myself?”

“Yeah.”

I lift a shoulder and stab at another chunk of chicken. “I push myself because I want to push myself. I always hate it when people tell me to lay off the gas or not take myself too seriously or lower my standards or whatever else. My standards are mine to set where I want and so are yours.”

Adrian doesn’t speak for a long moment, but he’s still looking back me with so much heat and heaviness in his gaze so that I can feel a tingle tracing up my neck. The game chimes, threatening another time out, but this time he ignores it.

“Well,” he says finally, breaking through the noise.

“Well, what?”

He tilts his head and a lock of hair falls over his eyes. My heart flutters. No idea when I started finding partial vision impairment so attractive.

“Well,” he says again as he leans in closer. “I’m glad USRowing is deluded enough to think I’m a good candidate for this job.”

I swivel to look at him in the eye. “Because you’ve always had a deep-seated, yet inexplicable desire to get crushed at Skee-Ball?”

“No. Because it means I get to spend the next two months with you.”

We hold each other’s eyes and heat unfurls over me, so intense it’s almost uncomfortable. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears, and I’m too aware of my pulse, which is now skipping every third to fourth beat. I feel completely out of control, like I’m falling. Like I’m standing too close to a fire.

My watch blares. I startle away, swivel the screen to see what scheduled activity I just missed. Then do a double take.

It’s nine forty-five. I should have already done my pre-bed routine.

“Crap!” I nearly scream. How have two hours passed? I’ve already missed my evening stretching and hydration session. Already moving, I slam my Tupperware closed and stuff it on top of the heap of dirty clothes filling my bag before wrestling the zipper closed. “I need to get home.”

I back up toward the stairs.

Adrian abandons our game, moving with me.